


Love is a Triangle, Freud is a Square

by EnglishCivilWar



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Family Dynamics, Light-Hearted, M/M, Misunderstandings, Slice of Life, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 18:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12216432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnglishCivilWar/pseuds/EnglishCivilWar
Summary: It's senior year, and that means one thing: time for Lance to start actually taking his life seriously. The time has flown by, and now he's left standing on the edge of a cliff, with no barriers, no railings, no NOTHING to keep him from just falling away into the wind. His parents have made him quit most of his after school activities to focus on his schoolwork, and Hunk, Pidge, and Rolo are all busy sorting out their own teen drama...so where does that leave Lance?In Psychology class. With the most insane teacher he's ever had in all twelve years of his education. The big assignment? Spend the entire first semester hanging out with a classmate he's never met before in his life, in order to test the teacher's crazy psychological theory on love. Will it work? Well, not in Lance's case -- his partner is the most annoying, rude, frustrating guy in the entire UNIVERSE. It's like the world is specifically plotting against him, dooming him to a life of failure and misery...unless he can learn to grab it with both hands, hold tight, and steer it all on his own.





	Love is a Triangle, Freud is a Square

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in AP Psych right now and it is LIT. Thank you, dear textbook, for serving as the inspiration for this story. I am forever in your debt.

Sunset. A big, orange... _dusty_ experience.

Lance scratches his forehead. People paint pictures of this thing. Take award winning photographs of it. You'd think it would be a little bit cooler. A little more, "Wow," maybe a tad, "Holy SHIT." But nope. The sky may be glowing gold and the clouds do sort of look like heaven from a certain angle, but --  Lance squints to see the little ball of waning light on the edge of the horizon, and, okay, so maybe the water looks kind of pretty, but -- from his place perched on the railing, the sun itself isn't really doing it for him. It's too glazed over. Not enough 'pazazz'.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Hunk sighs from beside him, staring dreamily forward.

Lance picks at his fingernail. "Yeah, totally."

"Just...just GORGEOUS."

"Mhmm."

"I could stare at it for hours. I could draw it. I could swim to it." Hunk leans his arms on the railing, bouncing to his toes. "Dude, I think I'm in love with it."

"I think you're in love with _Shay,_ and the stupid sun has you brainwashed." Lance smiles down at him, and Hunk frowns indignantly. "I think _she's_ the one you could stare at for hours, man, if you know what I'm saying." He waggles his eyebrows for no reason other than to make Hunk squirm, because, heck, why not?

"Well, I think you're full of shit," Hunk replies, turning away so Lance can't see his grin, and the polite, cool tone of his voice is fucking _hilarious._ For a second.

Lance swings his legs so his sneakers kick up some sand and gestures to Pidge's snoozing form on the bench below them. "Dude, language. You're in the presence of a child."

Hunk waves his hand. "She's asleep."

"Still." Pidge is their friend, sure, but she's also only a sophomore. "Y'know."

That seems to work, because Hunk just shrugs and nods. It's quiet for a moment, and with the wind gently blowing against his face and rustling his baseball cap, and the water, and the sky...all right, maybe Lance can admit that it's _kind_ of nice to look at. The sunset, that is. He squints. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"I just, like, realized, this is it."

Hunk furrows his brow. "This is what?"

"This is _it,"_   Lance repeats, waving his arms to illustrate his point. “This is the last day, the last, like, _moment_ that we get to ourselves, that we get ALL to ourselves before school starts." He frowns, because honestly, it’s so fucked up. "Before all that college junk starts. And it becomes about _them,_ pleasing _them._ Not pleasing ourselves."

It's something he's thought of before, briefly, over the last four years. What would it be like, once he was a senior? Would it be fun? Exhausting? Exciting? He still has no idea. And every time he's tried to come up with an answer this summer, it's felt like he's suffocating on stress. But now...

"We've gotta appreciate the small things, then. Like the sunset," Hunk finishes, nodding thoughtfully.

Lance pats his arm. "Exactly, my friend. Yes." Not exactly. Lance wouldn’t have used _that_ as the example. He’d have said -- video games. Appreciate video games. And hot dogs. He settles back, staring at the sun for another second or two. And then it becomes boring again, inevitably. "You get your schedule yet?" he asks, wriggling around to loosen up his muscles.

"Yeah. Don't freak out on me, I already know we're not in any classes together," Hunk adds pointedly at Lance's open mouth.

Lance pouts. "So what classes ARE you in?"

"AP Calc." Hunk kicks at the concrete walkway separating them from the beach below. "AP Bio. AP Gov. AP-"

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ." It's like a laundry list of the most boring things Lance could possibly imagine. Calc -- what even _is_ that? And Bio is _two whole periods._

“Hey, watch your language.”

“She’s asleep!”

Hunk squints at him. _Okay, maybe that was a tad hypocritical._ Lance grins. “The only AP class I’m taking is Psych.”

A sudden sound from below startles them, makes Lance's body jerk, and he flails for a moment before falling backwards off the railing, his ass landing hard on the concrete. _Ow._ He groans _._ "The hell was that?"

Hunk peers over the railing. "Pidge. She woke up."

"I'm awake!" Pidge yelps. Lance crawls forward to look, and sure enough, there's the pipsqueak, rolling around on the sand in a failed attempt to right herself. "I'm awake, I swear."

Lance raises a brow. "What made you suddenly decide to grace us with your consciousness?"

Pidge finally gets herself seated upright and glares up at Lance through the scratchy lenses of her glasses. "I heard you mention Psych. You have Smythe, right?"

 _Well, that's just plain WEIRD._ "How the heck did you know? And weren't you asleep just now? How'd you hear us?" Lance squints. "Can you read minds, Pidge?"

"I was just dozing, so my ears managed to catch a few key words in your conversation." She stands and dusts herself off. "There're only two Psych teachers this year, and I have Smythe, so I just assumed you had him, too."

Lance frowns. "Oh." He presses his nose against the cold, rusted metal of the railing. "How are you in Psych if you're only a sophomore?"

"'Cause _I'm_ actually smart. Unlike, y'know, you."

She says it with her tongue poked out, so Lance knows she's joking, but, like, that’s his _pride_ she’s joking about, you know? Not something to be taken lightly, not in _his_ book. He jumps over the railing and tackles her to the ground -- not to actually hurt her, or anything, no way. But it’s fun, she’s laughing, and the exercise of play-wrestling in the sand is a nice distraction from the end of summer sadness that always gets him in its clutches. He eventually puts her in a loose headlock that she could probably -- no, _definitely_ escape if she really wanted to. "Admit I'm the smartest, handsomest, nicest person you've ever met." Lance ruffles her hair with his free hand. "Come _on,_ you know it's true."

"Fine, fine! Whatever." Pidge bangs his arm with her fist, and he graciously relents, releasing her and falling back onto the warm, warm sand.

It's nice. Cozy. The last traces of summer are still hot on the September air, and Lance can feel it like a blanket, like a giant sheet spread over him, comforting and just...nice.

The sun's only a small sliver in the distance, and stars are beginning to twinkle in the twilight. They fade in and out, like they're having trouble deciding on what they should be, _whether_ they should be. "I feel like that sometimes," Lance says out loud.

Pidge leans over him, her face upside down from his point of view. "You feel like what?"

"A star." Lance closes his eyes and stretches his arm out in front of him, up to the sky, fingers spreading. "A rock star."

"A rock star isn't a viable career path," Pidge snorts, pinching Lance's cheeks, and he has to open his eyes to swat her away. "Your guidance counselor should have told you that."

Hunk's face pops into view, also upside down. "I support you, Lance," he says kindly.

"Thanks."

“No prob.”

Pidge rolls out of Lance’s sight and slides up next to him instead, clinging onto his arm like a koala bear. She burrows her face in his sleeve. “Rock star, huh?” Her voice is softer now, quieter. “Tell me, Lance -- what do you actually wanna _get_ out of this year? Honestly?”

Lance feels the corners of his lips quirk up. It’s nice when she acts like this, like she really does care. He pokes her bare arm, exposed in a loose tee. “I dunno, what do _you_ want to get out of it?”

She huffs and sits up, a pout on her lips, her legs tucked underneath her as she presses her hands onto her thighs. But then her face shifts, her nose wrinkles -- thought. Contemplation. She’s taking this seriously. “I want to...I...learn more, I guess?” she says finally, hesitantly. Lance nods in reassurance, although he’s not exactly certain what he’s reassuring her of. She doesn’t look satisfied with her answer, but that’s okay. She doesn’t have to have an answer yet.

Lance clears his throat, taking the attention off of her, and she looks relieved, which was the goal. “I, for one, want to kick _ass_ on the drums--” -he ticks it off on his pointer finger- “--go to a baseball game--” -his middle finger- “--and never worry about anything ever again.” _Yep, that sounds about right._ He leans back on his palms, completely satisfied.

Pidge stares at him. Why, he has no idea, but he has an inkling it has something to do with her making fun of him. _Well, whatever._ She can make fun of him all she wants. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s a drum-playing, baseball-game-going, stress-free ass kicker.

She looks away, finally, instead turning her attention to Hunk. “What about you?”

Hunk doesn’t miss a beat. “I want to swim to the sunset, all the way to the sunset,” he says, his voice gentle. It makes something warm ooze in Lance’s chest, like honey on his heart. He smiles.

“If you swim to the sunset, it won’t be sunset by the time you get there,” Pidge points out.

Hunk shrugs. “Then I’ll wait all night and day for it to be sunset again.”

Lance and Pidge nod thoughtfully, and a comfortable silence falls over their little group. The night sky has finally shown itself, and the sea is black and menacing. Unforgiving. It’s exciting, honestly, Lance thinks. The way you could just, just completely get lost in it, just jump in and let it take you wherever it wants.

Lance presses his lips together and tugs his cap lower on his head. You have to trust it, though. The sea. That’s the only way for it to work. If you don’t trust it, it’ll swallow you whole.

And then it'll be nearly impossible to come back.

* * *

It’s a nice dream. He’s in a lake, which isn’t as gross as it sounds, and the lake is in a grassy clearing, which isn’t as dirt-filled as it looks. Swimming has always been a good thing to him. It’s steady, but exciting -- when his arms cut through the murky water, slicing through small waves like knives, letting the water take him places, surrendering to it -- it’s adrenaline-inducing.

The clearing is surrounded by tall, dark trees. They don’t have a specific look, are instead completely blurred out. That’s fine. They don’t have to have details. Lance is content to just tread through the lake and stare at the fuzzy brown shapes.

Yet is that enough? He dips himself lower -- not quite submerged, but almost. _Breaststroke is the one for a body of water like this._ He surveys the circumference. It’s not too wide, but it sure is long.

A cheeky smile splits his lips, he feels it. This lake is perfect racing length. He experimentally pushes the liquid out of his way, and it moves easily, like his arms, his muscles, his whole BODY is specifically made for this purpose, for parting water like it’s nothing but fine silk.

He’s cool with that. It’s an _awesome_ life purpose.

Arms ready. Chest ready. Legs in position. _Race to the end, get there as fast as you possibly can, let the water whisk you away_ \-- but keep it steady, always steady.

On your mark.

Get set.

G--

* * *

Okay, so, he _may_ have been cruelly ripped from his precious beauty sleep this morning by his stupid alarm clock, and he _may_ have lost the battle of the last Pop Tart to Little Abby, and he definitely had to help clean Lu up when he wet himself and started crying, but, dang it, Lance is NOT going to let those events turn his day sour. He is _not._

...

If only traffic weren’t so bad.

He groans the biggest groan he can muster and thunks his forehead on the steering wheel. “The light is green, you idiot, just goooooo.” It’s like the drivers are doing this ON PURPOSE. The little yellow Mini Cooper in front of him has been chugging along at an unbearably slow pace for the entire 20 minute drive to school, and, honestly, Lance is at his limit.

It’s hot as hell in his car, too, as if things weren’t bad enough. The sun is high in the sky, blazing through his windshield and boiling up the black leather of his dashboard. He flicks the switch of the A.C. one more time, halfheartedly hoping the blessed cool air will blast his sweaty face, but, alas, it does not.

 _“We’re just following ancient history, if I strip for you, will you strip for me?”_ Adam Ant’s tinny voice trembles from the speakers.

“I’d sure like to strip right about now,” Lance sighs.

He ends up ten minutes late for his first class, because, duh, obviously. Adam is still busting his ass trying to sing _Strip_ through the crappy car speakers when Lance screeches into a parking spot behind the building. God, he’s so fucking late. He hurriedly unbuckles his seatbelt and pretty much _falls_ out of the car, and man, does he wish he hadn’t worn his stupid hoodie-jacket-thing because holy mother of FUCK is it scorching out here.

The day is otherwise lovely, though. If he wasn’t in such a rush, he’d have liked to stop and admire the pretty blue of the sky, or say hi to the birds chirping in the trees scattered around the parking lot. He hasn’t seen them in three whole months, after all.

Well. Another time.

The building is exactly the same as it was last June, and in sophomore year, and freshman year, and back in eighth grade when he first moved here and stared at it through the big black iron gates he is presently bursting through. Praesidium High. Pretty red bricks make up its huge exterior, which consists of two smaller buildings branching off the main one. From left to right, those buildings hold the social classes (like English and History), the main office and auditorium, and the calculating classes -- as in, math and science.

Lance jogs up to the leftmost building and barrels through the giant metal door, sweat pouring down his face.

The hallway is completely empty. _Fuck._ Man, does he hope Smythe is a forgiving dude.

_Okay, 307, 307...up the second set of stairs to the right, ignore the sophomores making out on the first landing, up another flight of stairs, turn left, down the hallway, 304, 305, 306…_

He swings open the wooden door triumphantly and is met with 30-some-odd heads swiveling to stare at him in unison.

This would completely suck if he was a tiny baby freshman, but he’s not, and most of these kids are people he’s friends with, thank GOD. He quickly picks out a couple of the girls he did cheerleading with in sophomore year clustered together on the far left, and from nearer to the center, Rolo jerks his chin at him. All right, that’s good, at least.

Lance clears his throat and turns to address the wide-eyed teacher standing by the blackboard, a middle-aged dude with a bright red mullet and a wicked moustache. _Damn,_ that is one AWESOME look. Lance already likes him, and the guy hasn’t even said anything yet. He clears his throat again. “Hey, sorry I’m late, there was a _ton_ of traffic.” He flashes his signature smile, which has gotten him out of more situations than he would care to admit, and hopes for the best.

The teacher -- Smythe -- nods slowly, looking Lance up and down with hesitation. “That’s quite all right, Mr--?”

“McClain.” _Holy SHIT, he’s Australian._ Lance is giddy with excitement. “Lance McClain.”

Smythe nods again, blinks, then breaks out into a big smile. “Well, no matter! Come in, come in! Please!”

Lance breathes a subtle sigh of relief. _Awesome. Totally won him over._ Not that Lance ever _doubted_ his ability to charm. His grin widens as he steps fully into the room.

“Always nice to have another student, or as I like to say, another friend! Go on, have a seat wherever you wish.”

Lance glances around the room fully and immediately picks out Pidge over by the window, her lips pressed tightly together to keep herself from laughing at Lance’s situation. He instinctively moves in that direction, but the seat next to her is already occupied by a good looking guy with long-ish black hair that Lance doesn’t recognize. It’s extremely weird for a moment, the fact that there’s a senior in this class that he’s never met before, but then he realizes he actually doesn’t give a shit and slides into the seat behind Rolo, three rows back from the front and over to the left.

Rolo cranes his neck to look at Lance upside down. “Yo.”

“Yo.” Lance holds out his palm, and Rolo immediately slaps it. “Down for practice today?”

That sly, slow smile Lance knows very well spreads over Rolo’s lips. “You know it. Gotta be at Nyma’s from now on, though.”

“What? Why?”

“Mom kicked me out again cause she found pot in my room.” Rolo shrugs as if that’s completely normal, as if it’s on the same level as being grounded, or doing extra chores, and it sucks that for him, it is. “So I’m crashing at N’s place until my dad can pick me up this weekend.”

Lance nods, but he keeps his face blank. He can’t relate, and he’s not going to pretend that he can. “Nyma’s it is, then.”

Smythe clears his throat at the front of the room, and Rolo smoothly swivels back around, a practiced move. “I believe we were in the middle of roll call when our new friend decided to join us, yes?”

There’s a low rumble of affirmation from around the classroom. Lance feels his cheeks heat up slightly and offers Smythe a sheepish smile, which Smythe returns with extra warmth. _Okay, good, so he’s not actually pissed, or anything._ Lance can’t really afford to have a teacher hate his guts this year, not when he has Iverson for Government.

“Now.” Smythe claps his hands together and picks up the pink attendance sheet with a chuckle. “Let’s see...Katherine?”

“Here,” Pidge calls out, at the same time Lance yelps, “Call her Pidge!”

Smythe blinks and looks between the two of them in confusion. Pidge scrunches her face in anger at Lance. He pretends not to notice. “Your name is Pidge, then?” Smythe asks, drawing his brows together.

“Actually, no, that’s just a stupid--”

“I love it!” Smythe doesn’t wait for her to finish. He waves his hands in excitement, a twinkle coming to his eye. “It’s clever! Unique! Fitting! I’m giving you an A for it alone.”

Pidge stares, her mouth shutting immediately at his words. “Well. Okay,” she says quietly.

Lance shoots her a grin. She ignores him.

“All right, continuing on, then….Devin?”

“Here.”

“Alex?”

“Here.”

“Jason?”

“Here.”

“Keith?”

Silence. Everyone glances around the room automatically, searching for the missing student. The name doesn’t ring a bell to Lance.

Smythe frowns. “Keith? Are you here? Keith Kogane?” he tries again.

There’s the scraping sound of metal on a hardwood floor, and the dark haired boy sitting next to Pidge fumbles for the pen he dropped. “Here! Sorry, sorry, here. I’m here.” He sits up straight, frowning awkwardly. “I guess I zoned out.”

 _Relatable._ Lance smirks and flicks Rolo’s ear as Smythe reassures the guy that it’s fine. _"_ _Psst,_ dude.”

Rolo slaps at Lance’s hand in fake annoyance. “You’re like a goddamn fly. What?”

“Do you know that kid?”

“What kid?”

“The one sitting next to Pidge.”

Rolo glances over with disinterest for a moment, then goes back to drawing Godzilla on the inside cover of his notebook. “Nope, never seen him before.”

Fucking. _Weird._ “Do you think he’s new, or something? Holy SHIT, maybe he’s from _Canada!”_

“What the hell is it with you and Canada?” Rolo adds another spike to Godzilla’s back.

Lance smiles widely and bounces in his seat. “Syrup on everything, man. Everything.”

Smythe continues down the rest of the attendance sheet without further incident, then sits back on his stool and cracks his knuckles. Lance pauses in doodling a pointy-toothed shark on Rolo’s shoulder. “Now that that’s out of the way...welcome to AP Psychology!” Smythe spreads his arms and legs wide, like he’s jumping in the air, even though he’s only balancing precariously on the stool. “I’m not actually your teacher, by the way.”

The class stares at him with dropped jaws.

Smythe lets out a hearty laugh. “That was a joke! Don’t worry! Of course I’m your teacher. Doctor C.H.W. Smythe, at your service.” He bows deeply, then picks up a piece of chalk and writes C O R A N on the board. He underlines it. “But you can simply call me Mr. Smythe, or ‘Coran’.”

“That must be what the ‘C’ stands for,” Lance whispers. Rolo snorts.

“I hope you’ve all had an absolutely fantastic summer,” Smythe -- Coran -- continues, smiling pleasantly, “because this is going to be one incredibly difficult course. You’re going to weep, you’re going to laugh, you’re going to make new friends and cast aside old ones, and you’re going to love every minute of it.”

 _Well, that’s not intimidating at all._ Lance folds his hands behind his head and tilts back his chair. No way is he gonna _cry_ because of a _class._

Coran jumps off the stool suddenly, surprising everyone, and throws his hands in the air. “So let’s get started, then, shall we?” he asks with excitement, and Lance can’t help but crack a smile at his level of enthusiasm. It’s just _infectious._

The rest of the time is spent going over the course syllabus in great detail, which includes daily homework assignments, two exams a month, and one final project per semester. The most interesting thing, though, is what that final project consists of. “You’re each going to be assigned a partner,” Coran explains, pointing at the piece of paper in his hands. “Every day, you are to spend at least two hours together performing psychological activities and experiments, and you’re to record your findings in a journal. At the end of the semester, you’ll put together a presentation, which you’ll show to the rest of us.”

The class collectively, for lack of a better word, loses its shit. Two hours a _day? Every day?!_ "That’s ridiculous!” Lance yelps with the other kids. “How in the HECK are we gonna find the time to do all that? It’s senior year for most of us!” It doesn’t make sense. Not that Lance is super busy, or anything, but, like, he _could_ have been.

Coran smiles patiently. “Not to worry, my friends, fret not. I have a hypothesis I’ve been meaning to test -- Ah, but, I’m getting ahead of myself.” His grin widens. “All will be explained in the morrow. Class dismissed!”

Lance blinks. _It’s over already? That was fast._ And what the hell was with that last thing Coran said -- how could they NOT worry? Lance isn’t even a natural worrier, and he’s already worrying. _Damn it, and I specifically wanted this year to be STRESS-FREE._

“Lance! Hey, Lance!”

He glances up, then feels himself breaking into a huge smile. Plaxum, Florona, and Luxia are waving to him, along with the other few girls from the cheerleading squad that he wasn’t quite as close with. “Hi, Plaxy!” he calls, bounding over immediately and jumping over a couple desks in his way. He scoops all the girls up in a giant hug -- something he wasn’t strong enough to do back when he was actually ON the team. Oh, well.

Plaxum’s perfume catches his nose, a mix of vanilla and some kind of flower, and it’s nice, like back when he was a sniveling little 15-year-old and she’d sit with him in the locker room after practice and rub his back. “You guys smell so good,” he mumbles into their dyed hair.

Florona laughs. “You _always_ say that when you hug us,” she points out, and, well, that is most definitely true.

Lance releases her and ruffles her hair. “How have you guys been? How was your summer?”

Plaxum shrugs. “I don’t know, it was a summer. We went to the beach and shit, if that counts for anything.”

“Of course that counts! The beach is bomb!”

“Well, that’s where we went! What about you?”

“I think I’ve finally perfected my curveball.” Lance steps back and mimes throwing a baseball, exactly the way he’s been practicing every day for the last two months. “Maybe I’ll finally be recruited by the Dodgers.”

Plaxum grins. “No, you can’t do baseball because you’re coming back to cheerleading! Come on, dude, you know you miss us.” She pokes her tongue out at him.

It’s certainly a tempting offer, and Lance really, really does miss them, the gym, the fun he had…he sighs. “Sorry, Plaxy, no can do. I promised my parents I would let up on the after school activities this year.” He offers a placating smile. “Plus, you know I was never really any good at it.”

“That has nothing to do with anything, and you know it,” Plaxum scolds, crossing her arms in front of her chest. But she soon relents, her scowl melting into a soft frown. “Well, okay. But you’ll come to all our games, right?”

“Of course!” Lance pats her on the arm with a grin. “I won’t miss a single one.”

The corners of Plaxum’s lips turn up. She opens her mouth to respond, but at that moment someone roughly collides into her, sending her stumbling into a nearby desk, which is super rude and nasty and what kind of jerk would --

_Oh. It’s that long-haired guy._

He’s frozen in place, the shoulder of his black tee askew, and his eyes are wide as if he has absolutely no idea what he’s supposed to do. _Like, what, has he never learned any freaking manners?_   Lance shoots him a look he hopes says, “APOLOGIZE NOW, YOU APE.”

Plaxy rubs her arm, an angry expression on her face. “Hey, buddy, watch where you’re going.”

The dude -- his name started with a K? -- blinks, then averts his eyes. “Oh, uh, sorry.” He blinks again. “I actually, well, don’t really know where -- I mean, never mind.” And then he’s gone, vanishing as quickly as he appeared. He strides to the door, determinedly gripping the straps of his backpack, and marches off to wherever the hell it is he’s going.

Lance stares at the vacant doorway for a moment, thinking of nothing in particular.

“Hey, don’t you have class this period?”

His eyes snap back to Plaxum, and then to his watch, and then the late bell blares its dastardly alarm through the building.

_Fucking. Shit._

He races over to the door and bangs his way out of the classroom, Psychology and Smythe and the strange boy fading to the back of his mind as more pressing matters take hold: namely, not getting written up by Iverson.

Man. He’s _totally_ dead.

Oh, well.

**Author's Note:**

> Hoping to update this every couple of weeks. I have a general outline worked out, but I have no clue how long it's going to be. I've only ever written one shots, so this is uncharted territory for me! I'm excited.
> 
> Tumblr: legendarydefender


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